


Music for All Time

by JantoJones



Series: UNCLE Holidays [14]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Napoleon and Illya have an appointment with a contact at a derelict English mansion house.





	Music for All Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlintheglen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/gifts).

> Written for girlintheglen as part of the mfu_scrapbook Hallowe'en challeng

Although it had only just gone lunchtime, an unearthly darkness hung over the neglected building that was once Oakheart Hall. At one time, it had belonged to the Oakheart family, but had fallen into disrepair, after the death of the last in the line over two decades previously. 

For reasons which were never forthcoming in the realms of espionage, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had been sent to the derelict mansion to meet a contact. He apparently had some extremely sensitive information pertaining to Thrush’s European operations. Although the mansion was in England, Solo and Kuryakin had been sent from America because the contact had asked for them specifically. Naturally this set alarm bells ringing but, often, these secretive meetings yielded a lot of interesting information.

Oakheart Hall was situated in the middle of a sprawling estate, deep in the heart of the county of Hampshire. The grounds, which had been landscaped by the famous Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, had once been beautiful and immaculate. Now, after years of being allowed to grow wild, they had taken on a different kind of beauty.

“It looks like something from a horror movie,” Napoleon commented, as Illya drove them along the driveway. “Is it me, or do our assignments seem to get much creepier at Hallowe’en?”

Illya had to fight the urge the roll his eyes. Napoleon had been going on about Hallowe’en all day, and the fact he was missing the celebrations back home. In England, although it was celebrated, it didn’t seem as big as it was in the States. Illya put it down to it being so close to Bonfire Night on November 5th.

“The house is meant to be haunted,” Illya stated. “Not that I give that claim any credence whatsoever. The last Lord Oakheart died during the war, when his spitfire was shot down. His fiancée, Arabella Fortescue, committed suicide by poison a few days later. She was found sitting at the piano, shortly before she died, with her hands covering her face.”

“Illya...,” Napoleon attempted to cut in.

“Apparently, they were both gifted pianists,” his partner continued. “And she was well known as a society portrait artist. Legend has it that Lord Oakheart was not one to let death get in his way, and that he returned to the hall; where he continues to make music with his bride-to-be.”

“Believe it or not, Tovarisch, I read the pre-mission report. Although, I fail to see the relevance of the ghost story to our mission.”

“I suspect it was added purely as a fatuous reference to the date.”

Illya brought the car to a stop in front of the main entrance and he and Napoleon got out.

“We need to go to the music room,” said Napoleon. 

“I too read the pre-mission report,” Illya replied, without inflection.

He looked up towards the roof, taking in the three main floors.

“I doubt it will be on the top floor, as that is where the servants’ quarters and nursery rooms will be,” he said. “We can also discount the basement, as that would have been kitchens and servants’ work areas.”

“I’ll take the first floor, you take the second,” instructed Napoleon.

Illya was about to tell him that, since they were England, he should be saying ground floor and first floor but decided against it. There was a strange atmosphere around the house making him just want to discover the reason for the meeting and then get out of there. This was not the place, nor the time, for a protracted argument about terminology. Not that he would dream of letting his partner know that the place had him spooked. He settled for nodding in agreement at Solo’s instruction.

The main entrance of the building comprised of heavy double doors, one of which was lying on the floor, while the other was standing partially open.

“After you,” said Napoleon, gesturing for Illya to go ahead of him.

“So brave.”

Through the doors they found themselves in a large, open entrance hall, which was the height of two floors. The ceiling still bore some of the splendour of the original plaster work. The rest was strewn about on the cracked and dirty marble tiles, where it had fallen over time. There was a sweeping staircase to the left, and to the right, which met to form a narrow mezzanine and corridor leading to the rooms on that floor.

Illya headed for the left staircase and began to search each room in turn. There were seven in all, but he found nothing but dust, damp, and two armchairs encrusted with fungus. There was nothing to suggest that any of them had ever been a music room.

On the ground floor Napoleon was having more success. He found the room he was looking for after three attempts. The music room still showed signs of the opulence it once had. On the walls were the remnants of a plush blue wallpaper, and dark blue velvet curtains hung in tatters at the window. At the far end of the room otherwise empty, sitting in front a large bay window, were two grand pianos. They were standing together in such a way that, when two people were playing, they would be sitting directly opposite one another.

As Napoleon stepped fully into the room, music started to play. He recognised it as ‘The Danse Macabre’ by Saint-Saëns. It sounded as though it was coming from the pianos in front of him but that was impossible. For one thing, he was the only person in the room. For another, when Napoleon got to the instruments, he could see they were completely unplayable. The keys were rotten and broken, and most of the strings had perished.

Certain that someone was deliberately trying to scare him, Napoleon ignored the music and slowly moved around the instruments. He could see nothing untoward about them, other than their rotted state, until he saw what was sitting on the keys of the second piano.

Sitting almost in the centre of the key board was a small artist’s mannequin. It had been positioned with its hands covering its face. It immediately made him think of what the pre-mission report had said about the death of Arabella Fortescue, and he wondered if someone had placed the mannequin there in remembrance. Without thinking, Napoleon reached out and picked it up. 

In an instant the room around him changed, and the music changed. The torn curtains were whole, and hanging perfectly, and the walls were entirely covered by the blue wallpaper. The room was also filled with the most exquisite furnishings and art works, and bore very little resemblance to the decrepit room Napoleon had entered. What really grabbed his attention, however, were the two people sitting at the pianos. They were playing the second movement of ‘En Blanc et Noir’ by Debussy. It was a sombre piece which echoed the mood between the two pianists.

One was a man dressed in the blue uniform of the Royal Air Force. He had blond wavy hair, and his upper lip sported the rakish style of moustache favoured by British pilots. Opposite him was a beautiful young woman with red hair and red lipstick. She was smiling at the man with a mix of love and worry.

“Must you go Humphrey?” she asked, pausing her playing. “You’ve only been here for two days.”

“We’re at war Arabella, darling,” he replied. “We must all go when were called.”

“Please come back to me,” Arabella pleaded.

“Of course, darling. I promised to marry you, and I intend to spend all of eternity making music with you. Even in death we will continue to play in harmony.”

Arabella chuckled softly.

“In that case, before you leave, let us play something fitting.”

Unseen by either of the musicians, Napoleon watched on in fear as they began to play the music he had heard upon entering the room; ‘The Danse Macabre’.

*****

Concluding his fruitless search upstairs, Illya headed back to the ground floor to join Napoleon. Halfway down the stairscase he heard the music playing. He could make out the sound of two pianos, and silently questioned why Napoleon would be playing a duet with their contact. His confusion was further compounded when, after following the sound, he discovered that his partner was alone, and the pianos were unplayable.

Solo was sitting on the floor in front of one of the instruments. He hands were over his face and, beside him, was the wooden mannequin.

“Napoleon?” Illya called out, as he approached. “Napoleon, are you with me?”

It wasn’t until Illya tapped his shoulder that Napoleon realised he was there. The moment he dropped his hands, the music stopped.

“Illya? What’s happening?”

“You tell me.”

Solo clambered to his feet and looked around the room. It had returned to broken and dishevelled state. He explained to Illya what he had experienced. To his credit, and Napoleon’s relief, Illya did not discount his tale. Although the Russian was sceptical about such things, he knew his partner, and he recognised when he was being absolutely earnest.

“I cannot explain what happened to you, my friend,” Illya stated. “But whatever it was, it seems unconnected to out assignment.”

“I think we’ve either been brought here on a wild goose chase, or the contact was prevented from getting here. Either way, I have no intention of staying a moment longer.”

“Were the contact here, he would have shown himself by now,” Illya replied.

Before they left, Napoleon retrieved the mannequin from the floor and placed it back on the piano; making sure to put in the exact pose in which he had found it. 

After they had gone, two figures, barely shadows of the people they once were, sat at the pianos and made music together; as they had done for twenty-five years.


End file.
